


His voice, my voice, your voice

by TiliaC0rdata



Category: Critical Role (Web Series)
Genre: Angst, Caleb Widogast Needs a Hug, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Established Relationship, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Nightmares, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Self-Loathing Caleb Widogast, Torture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-14
Updated: 2020-06-14
Packaged: 2021-03-04 04:15:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,519
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24717412
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TiliaC0rdata/pseuds/TiliaC0rdata
Summary: Caleb keeps reliving the torture he suffered as a boy in his nightmares. His lover, Essek, thinks he might have a solution.
Relationships: Essek Thelyss/Caleb Widogast, Trent Ikithon & Caleb Widogast
Comments: 10
Kudos: 149





	1. Token of faith

**Author's Note:**

> Here we go - my first fic. I hope you'll enjoy it!
> 
> I'd like to thank @FallingT for encouraging me, pre-reading the fic, giving great feedback and coming up with the title!
> 
> You'll find a Zemnian glossary at the bottom of the page.

First, there is the fear, the dread of what’s to come coiled in his belly, slithering and cold like a snake. Session after session, the sickening feeling grows stronger, so much so that he fears he might puke all over Master Ikithon’s pristine lab equipment. He feels exposed without his shirt on, the cold air of the subterranean chamber raising hairs on his bare arms and chest. He tries to still the tremble in his hands, squeezing them tight whenever he thinks no one can see him, hoping desperately that his moments of weakness escape his professor’s eagle eye.

 _Sei kein Feigling, Bren_ , he chastises himself. _You are a Volstrucker, die Zukunft des Reiches, not a child._

He watches as another faceless servant readies the chair. It looks used but clean, despite all the sweat and blood he and his fellow students have shed on it time and time again. At times, he wishes he could break it into pieces; in his most childish thoughts he imagines that as the instrument of his suffering disappears, the pain will end. But of course it won’t. _It’s just a chair, Dummkopf._ He squeezes his fists again and tries to calm his breathing. _Count. Counting helps. Eins, zwei…_

“Na, Bren,” he hears from behind his back. “Bist du bereit?”

He corrects his posture, lifts his chin up and forces himself to calm down.

“Jawohl!”

He hoped to sound like a soldier, but the slight tremble in his voice betrays him and fills him with shame. _So feige._ So weak.

“Ja, Herr Ikithon,” he corrects himself. “I am ready.”

“Gut. Assume the position.”

As much as he’d rather flee, he follows the order immediately. There is no disobeying his professor. The man holds the knowledge and the power that Bren so desperately yearns to know. To be under his tutelage is an honour and a dream come true. He’s invested time, energy and resources in the three of them and if all this work were to go to waste… Perish the thought!

He tries to make himself comfortable in the chair - he is going to spend a good while there after all. He looks as Master Ikithon prepares his components. He hears the clinking of vials, the rustling of pages, and then an unmistakable crisp sound. The crystals. A shiver runs down his spine and he can’t help glancing nervously at his arms, the flesh still tender and red, not quite healed from the previous experiment. He is terrified to feel his eyes well up with tears. He blinks them back hurriedly. _Eins, zwei, drei…_

“There is no need for tears, Bren,” he hears a strict voice. “Serving the Empire is a privilege. You should feel honoured.”

So he’s seen him. _Die Schande! Du bist so feige, du Schwächling!_

“Ja,” he musters. “I do, Herr Ikithon. I’m very honoured to serve the Empire.”

The professor says nothing as he approaches. He looks over the boy’s arms.

“Which one should we do first?”

“Der rechte,” Bren says without hesitation. Even bleeding and sore, his right arm is stronger – he can use it to hold his left arm down if need be.

The teacher nods and takes hold of his right arm to inspect it. It hurts as he presses into the scar tissue and Bren knows what is coming, but it still feels comforting to be held and touched. He relaxes slightly.

“Have you been taking good care of your wounds, Junge?”

“Ja, natürlich!” he answers hastily.

He remembers the time when he failed to clean his wounds properly and required a healer’s aid for the pus that started gathering in them. _Your body belongs to the Empire, du undankbares Kind! How dare you take such lousy care of the Empire’s property! Schäm dich!_ The professor almost slapped him in the face that time, but he decided against it. Instead, he forbade the other students from speaking to Bren, and he was only allowed to attend their lessons in silence, standing in the far corner of the room, choking back tears and aching to participate. He never, ever made that mistake again.

“Gut. Lass uns anfangen.”

Let’s begin.  
  


* * *

  
The pain was excruciating, the ends of the crystals not sharp enough to cut through skin immediately. Each pointed end tugged at his skin, stretching it to the limit, and then slowly tore through it, boring a hole in his flesh and ripping at the wound, making it larger as it went deeper. Some crystals were inserted perpendicularly, straight into his veins. Others were thrust into his flesh at an angle or just below the surface, piercing his skin a second time on their way out. The small ones were the worst. Embedding themselves deep into his flesh, shining through the swelling, they looked like green crystalline ulcers and made his arms feel like they were going to burst.

He always promised himself he would be brave. He set his jaw, clenched his fist and grasped the armrest firmly with the other arm. He took deep breaths and he tried to count, but he’d always lose count sooner or later, which made him even more frantic. And that was usually only the beginning.

By the time Master Ikithon was done with the intricate pattern of tortuous cuts, he was always in tears. On good days, the tears were silent with only an occasional groan or broken whimper escaping past his lips which he’d always bitten through and bloodied by this point. Then, pressed by his teacher, he’d sometimes manage to successfully cast a spell, a cantrip usually, since he wouldn’t be able to concentrate on anything else. When that happened, his teacher would praise him and tell him he was doing the Empire proud and a warm feeling of pride swelled in Bren’s chest, soothing the cold clenching pain that had lodged itself there.

This wasn’t one of the good days. He didn’t know if it was the particular arrangement of the crystals, the fact that his wounds hadn’t healed over quite yet or just his own despicable weakness, but the pain was far too much to bear. His vain attempts at braving it ceased in mere minutes, and soon he was sobbing and howling, doing his best not to call for his _Mutti,_ writhing in the chair against the magical restraints that his teacher had summoned. Ikithon was adamant he try to cast a spell, but he only heard bits and pieces of his instructions through his own cries and the chaos in his head.

_NEEEEIN! – Focus! – Dreitausendfünfhundert… was it vierhundert? – IT HUUUUURTS! – Are you a soldier of the Empire or a snivelling child? - …vierhundertdreiund…-GODS, BITTE! – I am wasting precious components on you, you ingrate, now focus! - …dreiund… - BITTE! PRO… PROFESSOR! BITTE! – I should have left you to harvest beans at that Drecksloch of a farm! …eins… eins…– TAKE THEM… OUT… TAKE THEM OOOOUUUT!_

THWACK! He felt a burning slap on his tear-streaked cheek and for a split-second he was frozen in shock.

“You do not get to command me, du Stück Scheiße!” the mage snapped. “Now, if you’re going to be useless, I may as well see if this works…”

The teacher’s voice trailed off as he eyed Bren’s other arm. The boy’s eyes grew wide in realization and he broke into fresh sobs.

“Nein, nein, ich bitte Sie, please don’t do this, nein, Professor, Vergebung, I’m sorry, have mercy!”

His pleas fell on deaf ears.

“You are being pathetic,” the professor sighed as he reached into his pocket and procured a small iron rod. He grasped it firmly in one hand and touched Bren’s sweat-covered forehead, brushing wet strands of hair out of his eyes. “I hoped you wouldn’t force me to do this, Bren.”

Before he could so much as gasp, he felt a stiffness overcome his whole body. At first, the feeling was not unlike the heaviness that he felt in his shoulders and neck after a night spent hunched over his studies. But it quickly grew in intensity and soon he couldn’t even tremble. He made desperate efforts to move his arm out of Ikithon’s grasp, to make a noise, to blink and make the tears that were clouding his eyes fall down his cheeks. His muscles and his nerves burnt like hot irons from the effort, but he was utterly helpless. He was a prisoner in his own body, unable even to scream. All that was left in his head before the darkness took him was the desperate plea.

_Take them out. Take them out.  
  
_

* * *

He woke up in his bed, his body wrecked by pain. For a good moment he thought he might still be paralysed by the spell, but slowly and heavily, he managed to prop himself on his elbows. He groaned in pain. He looked down and noticed that his wounds had been tended to and a deep sense of shame brought fresh tears to his puffy eyes. Usually, he managed to leave his professor’s lab on his own, tearful, often sobbing, bloody and shaking, but proud that he’d endured. It was a point of pride to tend to your own wounds, to take proper care of the Empire’s property. He failed. He was a mistake, a waste of time and effort, a weak, pathetic child. He left his teacher no choice but to immobilize him because he was so hysterical. _Götter, die Schande!_

And yet, there was something else. The smallest flicker of anger lit up at the back of his mind, its light piercing through the shame. He’d been trying so hard, he had withstood so much. Why call him pathetic, why insult him and his family, question his determination? It was unfair, even cruel, to push him so hard and then spurn him for falling.

Amber-coloured lights flickered to life as he snapped his fingers. He let out a broken sigh and stood up from the bed on shaky legs. And then he noticed it.

A scroll, tied with string of white and gold, lay on his bedside table. He clenched and unclenched his fists to bring feeling back to his fingers, picked the scroll up with trembling hands and unfolded two rolled pieces of parchment. The first was a beautifully transcribed spell labelled “Burning Hands”. The second contained a note in Master Ikithon’s precise, deliberate handwriting.

_I may have been overly harsh last night. Consider this gift a token of my faith in your abilities._  
_I’m sure you will prove your worth on your next assignment._

_T.I._

Bren felt a painful lump build in his throat as a fat tear rolled down his bruised cheek. He was forgiven. He would get a chance to prove himself.

Maybe he wasn’t a disappointment after all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Feedback is greatly appreciated!
> 
> **Zemnian glossary:**
> 
> Sei kein Feigling, Bren. – Don’t be a coward, Bren.  
> die Zukunft des Reiches – the future of the Empire  
> Dummkopf – fool  
> Bist du bereit? – Are you ready?  
> Jawohl! – Yes sir!  
> Die Shande! – The shame!  
> Du bist so feige, du Schwächling! – You are so weak, you wimp!  
> Der rechte – The right (one)  
> Junge – young man, boy  
> Ja, natürlich! – Yes, of course!  
> du undankbares Kind – you thankless/ungrateful child  
> Schäm dich! – Shame on you!  
> Mutti – mommy, momma  
> Dreitausendfünfhundert – 3,500  
> vierhundertdreiund... – 4...3  
> Drecksloch – dirty hole  
> Stück Scheiße – piece of shit  
> Ich bitte Sie – I beg you sir  
> Vergebung – forgiveness  
> Götter, die Schande! – Gods, the shame!


	2. Token of gratitude

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The last chapter was a lot of hurt with some extremely dubious comfort at the end.  
> Here's the hug that Caleb Widogast deserves.
> 
> My thanks still go to the wonderful @FallingT - the godmother of this story.
> 
> You'll find a Zemnian and Drow glossary at the bottom of the page.

That one night kept coming back to him in his dreams. If he was lucky, he woke up right before it all began to then spend the night tossing and turning, unable to shake the feeling of dread. On particularly bad nights, he relived the ordeal many times over before finally waking up, sick to his stomach with the memories of how touched he was by his teacher’s _forgiveness._

This time, however, he wakes up right as young Bren is about to lose consciousness. He shoots up from his pillow and takes a few seconds to realize that he is screaming at the top of his lungs. It felt so real. His skin, his muscles, his every nerve burn with fresh pain and he can still feel the crystals lodged deep within his arms. His lungs ache from his rapid breathing.

 _Ich muss…_ He reaches down to wipe the blood with his sheets, then blinks, confused. _Why is there no… Where’s the blood?_

His mind is racing when he feels a hand touch his shoulder.

“Cay?”

He recoils in fear and stretches an arm out to cast a spell, but the man grabs his wrist, then gently folds his fingers into his palm.

“Cay. _Ssin’urn_. Look at me. It’s okay. It’s me. I’m here.”

“E-Essek?” Caleb rasps.

“Yes. It’s me. It’s okay. You’re safe.”

Caleb looks around, wide-eyed and confused. The room is dark, faint starlight coming in through the window, falling softly on familiar objects. His Xhorhassian tunic is hung on a chair, next to an ornate chest which holds his lover’s robes. He is sitting in bed, knees brought close to his chest, one foot tangled in silken sheets, so different from the rough linen he was used to as a young man. Essek is kneeling next to him, one hand enveloping his, the other brushing a few stray ginger strands behind his ear. His hair. His hair is much longer too, caressing his shoulder blades. He looks back at his forearms, the scar tissue thick and long healed, the meticulous pattern broken by some more recent scars that he’s collected while travelling with his friends. Years have passed. He is in Rosohna. It was just a bad dream.

Slowly, his panic subsides, as a wave of relief hits him and the phantom pain of his old wounds fades. He lets out a sigh. And then he bursts into tears.

“Cay? Why… What’s wrong?”

But Caleb is unable to speak. He brings his knees even closer to his body and hides his face behind them, sobs wrecking his thin frame.

“I’m so sorry… I let them down… I let them all down…” he musters finally, through his tears.

There is a beat of silence and then he hears a quiet shuffle, as Essek moves to press his body against Caleb’s back. Caleb winces at the touch.

“Don’t. I don’t deserve… I’m worthless.”

“Don’t you say that!” Essek rebukes, his voice insistent. Caleb just sobs in response.

He feels a gentle hand tentatively placed on his back. He doesn’t move away this time, and slowly the touch grows steadier, Essek’s thumb rubbing gently between his shoulder blades.

“Caleb, listen to me. You are so clever. So strong. So powerful.”

A quiet bitter laugh escapes Caleb’s chest.

“Because of _him!_ All I am is because of _him!”_

There is recognition in Essek’s eyes. He moves to take the human’s face in his hands.

“You cannot possibly believe that to be true. _Ykrel,_ look at how much you’ve accomplished without him. Despite him! Look at how much you’ve grown since then.”

Caleb opens his mouth to protest, but Essek silences him with a gentle kiss.

“You are not that boy any more, Caleb. You are not what he tried to make you be. There is no Br… Oh!” he gasps as he catches himself, a look of panic crossing his face. “I’m sorry, I…”

“You can say it, _Schatz,”_ Caleb whispers. “It’s fine.”

Essek’s thumb caresses his cheek.

“There is no Bren, _ykrel._ I’m sure he was a bright boy and it’s a shame that he is lost. But Caleb Widogast is here. He is just as clever, but wiser, and stronger, and a good man. You are good, and beautiful, and mine, and this bastard can’t hurt you anymore.”

Caleb shakes his head.

“Because you’ll protect me, _ja?_ Is that what you wanted to say?”

He expects Essek to assure him indignantly that, yes, he will protect him. He will then call him naïve and…

“No, that’s not what I was going to say.”

Caleb’s heart sinks, the sting of rejection bringing a fresh wave of self-loathing, but there is familiarity, even a measure of satisfaction to that feeling.

“Can’t say I blame you…”

“Oh, please!” Essek huffs, his patience wearing thin. “Caleb Widogast. You know damn well I will stand by you no matter what. But you don’t need protection. You’re strong enough to protect yourself.”

It feels wrong to accept and wrong to deny, so Caleb just looks away, clenching his jaw.

“Look at all the things you’ve accomplished,” the drow continues more gently. “Just think, you gave your little friend her life back…”

“I did no such thing.” Caleb’s voice is wet with tears, but hard. “I have _taken_ many lives. But I have yet to give anyone their life back.”

Essek interlaces his fingers with his and Caleb can’t help but marvel at how soft his lover’s hands are compared to the rough skin of his palms. He brings them to his lips and kisses the dark knuckles. Essek reciprocates the affectionate gesture.

“I am sorry. I didn’t think my words through. I know how painful this is for you. Forgive me.”

Caleb hums in response. Asking _him_ for forgiveness is absurd. He keeps quiet as Essek traces gentle circles on his palms.

“It isn’t just about my…” His voice cracks. “It isn’t just about _them._ I shouldn’t…”

Essek rubs his shoulder, waiting patiently. Caleb takes in a deep breath and tries again.

“After all the lives I have taken, I don’t have the right to dream of taking another,” he says, his voice growing deeper, calmer, yet more intense. “But I do. I wish from the bottom of my heart that I could tear this man to shreds. I want him to bleed. I want to see fear in his eyes, as he begs for his life. I want him to watch everything he owns burn to the ground and I want to let the ashes settle on his quivering bloodied body. I want to make him suffer for hours, and I want to make sure that the last sound he hears before his death is his own screaming, his sobs. I want him to beg for mercy. And then I don’t want to give it to him.”

He expects Essek to be repulsed – why wouldn’t he be – but, though there is no audible response, the steady movement of Essek’s soft fingers on his shoulder doesn’t stop. He isn’t sure if that is reassuring or troubling, but he says nothing and lets Essek pet him a little longer.

“Let’s do it, then.”

Essek’s voice is calm and full of resolve. So much so, that for a moment Caleb wonders if he actually means it. He smiles.

“Don’t be stupid, _Schatz.”_

To his surprise, Essek rises from the bed, opens the chest with a flick of his wrist and puts on a robe. He gives a quick chuckle seeing Caleb’s bewildered face.

“Get dressed, _ykrel,”_ he says and when Caleb doesn’t move, he adds, “Just trust me. Get dressed and take your component pouch.”

“You… you cannot be serious. We cannot…”

“Kill a powerful mage and one of King Dwendal’s most trusted advisors? Sadly, I’m well aware. But I want to help you.”

Caleb still doesn’t move. Essek gives him a warm smile and moves closer to run his fingers through the tangled red locks.

“Aren’t you at least curious what I have in mind?”

Caleb lets out a shaky sigh and slowly rises from his lover’s bed.  
  


* * *

_Essek is a smart man. He wouldn’t…_ is the last thing that Caleb thinks before the teleportation circle flashes a bright blue and envelops them in a swirl of arcane forces. When they land, they are not in Rexxentrum as Caleb feared despite himself. As far as the eye can see, there’s only dark, cracked rock and an unchanging flat horizon. It is also deathly quiet.

“Where are we?”

“Somewhere private. Somewhere where my neighbours will not call the watch and ask questions.”

Without waiting for Caleb’s response, Essek procures a bit of fleece, waves it through the air and lets it fall to the ground. In the blink of an eye, the fleece disappears and in its place is Trent Ikithon, standing there with a vicious grin on his face. Caleb feels his stomach churn and his throat run dry.

“Is… Is this some kind of cruel joke?” he croaks. “Why would you show him to me?”

“It is not a joke,” comes the solemn answer. “It’s your chance. Make him bleed. Make him beg. Burn him to the ground. Do what you wish.”

Unsure, Caleb takes a step, then another, towards the illusion. It looks like his former teacher, the jaundiced skin, the cold grey eyes; it even smells like soot and the reagents he most often used. Even from up close it seems so real.

“It is an illusion, Essek. I could just dispel it if that’s what you want. I don’t need to _kill_ it to make it disappear.”

Essek sighs, closes the distance between them and puts his arms around Caleb’s neck.

“That voice in your head, that image in your dreams, those are illusions too. Real life vengeance is… complicated. I cannot guarantee you that it will ever happen. And hearing you speak today, I’m not sure if it would truly make you feel better. But here you can get a taste. You’re not really taking another life. But for this vile snake of a man, I can make it feel like you are, and maybe it will help you sleep through the night.”

Caleb looks over the illusory figure once more. He furrows his brow and digs his hand into his bag, then pulls out a lodestone and a pinch of dust. He closes his eyes, drags the minerals up his arm and points at the image of the smiling man.

“I am wasting precious components on you, you fucking bastard. _Lass uns anfangen._ ”

As the spell lands, he is acutely aware of the fact that it hits the rocky ground and not human flesh, but he has to admit that Essek’s illusion changes very realistically. He captures his former professor’s voice perfectly, and although Caleb has never heard the man howl in pain and beg for mercy, it is all quite easy to buy into. He isn’t quite sure if it is fear, disgust or excitement that make his hands tremble as he slowly disintegrates the man, but he sets his jaw and goes through with it. He doesn’t know what makes his blood boil hot enough to make him disregard how exhausted Essek looks, as he asks him to recreate the illusion again, and again, and again, for him to torture and disfigure. He could swear he saw Essek covertly wiping a thin streak of blood seeping from his nose before he asked him once more.

This time the illusion is kneeling in supplication, crying and begging him to spare his life. Caleb wipes his sweaty palms on his tunic and holds out his hands in the direction of the weeping old man.

“Consider this a token of gratitude for your generous gift that night. Let me prove my worth to you.”

His fingertips start to blacken and flake, and a sheet of flames shoots forth, enveloping the kneeling figure. And then he hears the scream and his breath catches in his chest. He drops the spell and Trent’s image stops screaming and starts groaning and whimpering in pain instead, hairless and blackened, patches of burnt flesh showing through the soot. Caleb approaches it, his knees wobbly, and feels his lip quiver.

 _“Warum…”_ he all but whisperes. _“Warum hast du mir das angentan?"_

The figure cowers in fear and carries on sobbing and begging, but there is no answer.

“ _Antworte mir!_ ” Caleb roars. “Answer me!”

Overcome by emotion, he lunges at the figure’s throat to strangle it, but he falls on the ground on the other side.

 _“Warum?_ Why?” he cries in a voice that is barely human and he hides his face in his arms, not even trying to get off the ground, just lying there, sobbing brokenly.

He feels Essek’s arms around his torso, as he tries to lift him, but his body is heavy and clings to the ground. He is almost satisfied when the arms go away. It makes sense.

He is barely conscious when he feels a sudden weightlessness overcome him and the ground starts moving away from him slowly. There is a bright blue flash and then he is in a dark room, slowly dropping down onto the bed. He’s too exhausted to truly cry, but his breath is still hitched and uneven. He feels a coldness touch his lips.

“Drink, Cay.”

He obeys, drinking the water in messy, choked gulps and he lifts his half-opened eyes to meet Essek’s. The drow looks worried, his white brow furrowed and his lips tight, as he watches Caleb carefully.

“Why…” Caleb starts, but the words get stuck in his throat.

“What is it, _ssin’urn_?”

“I am… a disappointment…”

“You are not a…”

“I _AM_ a disappointment… to my mother and father. To my family…” Caleb fights to get the words out. “To everyone who had hope in me.”

This time Essek doesn’t speak, just looks at Caleb with a pained expression on his face.

“But why… do I still feel like I’m a disappointment… to _him?”_

As the words leave his lips, Caleb just shakes, unable to make a sound, his throat sore from pushing through the lump that lodged itself in it. Essek puts his arms around his lover and rubs small circles on his back, swaying him lightly back and forth.

“You are _NOT_ a disappointment, _ykrel.”_ His voice is quiet but intense. He lifts Caleb’s chin and plants a kiss between his eyes, in a way that is so familiar to both of them. He speaks again, more softly this time. “You are not a disappointment. And I will keep telling you this until my voice replaces his in your head. And then, step by step, we will replace my voice with yours, until you believe it.”

He manages to coax him into standing up and helps him disrobe. Soon, Caleb's knees give and he collapses back into bed, eyes closed firmly and hands grasping tightly at the sheets. He feels Essek’s cool lips on his neck, his shoulders, his arms, hundreds of small, chaste kisses, feather light on his scars, old and new. His mind in a haze, Caleb has a timid, half-constructed thought about maybe, just maybe being worthy of love. He is too exhausted to put it into words, but he doesn’t have the strength to fight it either. It fills his chest with warmth and he feels his body relax, heavy and enveloped in Essek’s familiar scent. He feels the drow slip onto the bed next to him and lets himself be pulled into his arms, his head resting on his lover’s chest, slowly rocked to sleep as it rises and falls, relaxing into the comforting rhythm of the other man’s heartbeat. He hears a snap and his body feels pleasantly warm, his hair dry, now that the sweat cooled in the night air has disappeared. Another snap and the sheets feel warm as well, and they smell fresh and sun-dried. He has a bittersweet thought of his yard in Blumenthal, his mother hanging the washing out to dry. And as he drifts off to sleep, Essek’s fingers running through his hair, Caleb isn’t sure if he really hears the gentle voice or if he’s already dreaming.

“ _Dos ph'ussta ssinssrigg_ , Caleb.” You are my love.

He smiles and mouths voicelessly, _Ich liebe dich auch, Essek._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Again, feedback is appreciated! :)
> 
>  **Drow glossary:**  
>  ssin'urn – beautiful  
> ykrel – spark  
> Dos ph'ussta ssinssrigg, Caleb. – You are my love, Caleb.
> 
>  **Zemnian glossary:**  
>  Schatz – sweetheart, treasure  
> Warum hast du mir das angetan? – Why did you do this to me?  
> Antworte mir! – Answer me!  
> Ich liebe dich auch, Essek. – I love you too, Essek.


End file.
